


from which we speak

by mbaline



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Captivity, Choking, Cock & Ball Torture, Forced Orgasm, Guilt, HYDRA Trash Party, Humiliation, Hurt Bucky Barnes, M/M, Pining, Rape, Sexual Assault, Violence, Whump, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-11-09 11:10:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11103354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mbaline/pseuds/mbaline
Summary: Stuck in a Hydra facility with little hope of rescue, Bucky tries not to think of Steve at all, same way he's done all the months since he left Brooklyn.It’s harder, now, though. He’s seen Steve struggle through it enough times to know that if the overworking or the starvation or the diseases spreading through the ranks don't kill him, the heavy, crackling pain in his chest and the pooling fluid in his lungs just might.And then there’s the matter of Colonel Lohmer.+++Bucky tries to struggle upright, stopped short by a leather boot on his chest; Lohmer, standing over him, mouth twisted into a cruel, triumphant sneer. He crouches down until they're almost face to face, murmuring in that oily, smug voice words that Bucky doesn't need to understand German to catch the meaning of:Look at you. Look at where all your fighting got you.Bucky makes sure to get a nice big mouthful of blood and phlegm, and spits in his face.





	from which we speak

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you want to write some Bucky angst, and sometimes you want to write some irredeemable filth. This is both.

“You know, Sarge,” Morita’s saying, peeling his torn shirt up away from his side, “I’m starting to think you like getting punched.”

Bucky wheezes a laugh that quickly becomes a pained hiss, first when the fabric unsticks from one of the deeper gashes on his back where Lohmer’d got him with the belt, and then again when Morita’s fingers brush over where the bruising from Lohmer’s boots is darkest, right over his ribs. The sound scrapes at his throat, catching in his bruised lungs. The cough that makes its way out of him is more of a hacking wet wheeze, bringing up thick fluid that he catches in his open palm: bright red blood, mixed in among the phlegm. 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Morita and Jones exchange a look. 

“S’alright,” he manages grit out, twisting his mouth into a crooked grin that’s more red than white. “Had worse.” 

And it’s true -- Lohmer’s beatings have nothing on the scrapes he and Steve used to get into in the backalleys of Brooklyn. The only difference now is that Bucky’s the one starting the fights -- dragging Lohmer’s attention away from the other, weaker prisoners and onto himself instead -- and Lohmer the one that ends them, usually with a blow to Bucky's head. 

From the corner of the cell Dugan rolls his eyes. “Don't tell us: that Rogers kid again. He a dumb son of a bitch that doesn't know when to quit running his mouth too?” 

Bucky lets himself slump back down to the cool floor with a bitten-back groan. 

“Something like that.” 

He’s been trying not to keep thoughts of Steve at bay, safely hidden away, untainted by all of this -- the stink of piss and sickness and too many men crammed into too few cells -- the same way he’d stubbornly kept thoughts of Steve confined to that small, secret part of his mind from the moment he’d shipped out and on through all the horrors that came after, drawn out only in times of need; traced with furtive, reverent touches like the beads of a rosary beneath his fingertips: Steve, back home in their apartment, alive and safe and well. The furrow between his brows as he squints at his sketchbook, carving out the view from the fire escape in charcoal with easy, sure strokes of his hand. The pale hollow of his throat, half-hidden beneath the fraying collar of his shirt. The dark smear of blood on his lip, and the flash of pink as he licks it away with a swipe of his tongue. The thread of Bucky’s longing through it all: wanting to reach out, to touch, to step in close and press his lips to warm skin, to feel the flutter of Steve's pulse beneath his fingers and lips and tongue. 

But it was wrong then, and it’s wrong now, and he tries not to think of Steve at all. 

It’s harder, now, though. He’s seen Steve struggle through it enough times to know that if the overworking or the starvation or the diseases spreading through the ranks don't kill him, the heavy, crackling pain in his chest and the pooling fluid in his lungs just might. 

And then there’s the matter of Colonel Lohmer. 

From the moment he first laid eyes on him Bucky knew he’d be trouble. HYDRA squid or no, the swagger with which he prowled through the facility and the cruel twist of his lips spoke of the same careless arrogance of the officers Bucky’d had experience with back in the field: promoted not for their experience but for their connections, drunk on their own ambition, with an eagerness to make a name for themselves no matter how many men died along the way. 

For Lohmer, that last part seems to hold especially true; of all the HYDRA officers overseeing the factory's operations, he’s the most brutal. Each day, he and his posse of guards that flank his every step patrol the factory floor. The punishment they dole out is quick and severe, sometimes for those who fail to meet their quotas -- hindered by sickness or starvation or both -- and sometimes for no reason at all beyond Lohmer’s cruel enjoyment. Already more than a dozen men, beaten bloody under Lohmer’s orders, have been carted off towards the east wing of the facility. None of them have ever come back. 

“Next time, he's not gonna stop,” Jones says after a while, like he’s reading Bucky's train of thought. 

Bucky manages to roll over, blinking up at him with the eye that isn't half-swollen shut. “I can take it.” 

Which isn't what he means to say, exactly, but it's easier than thinking of Steve, of Steve who has endured so much worse than this and survived, who got knocked down over and over again and still came up swinging, who never backed down from a fight no matter how much it cost him. 

Steve, who’d stepped forward in the early dawn light and held Bucky close, face hidden as he’d murmured, soft in a way that Steve never was: “Come back to me.” 

+++ 

He gets sicker. Another day passes, then another. By the third, the pain gets so bad he can barely stand; Dugan and Falsworth have to support him between them, half-stumbling towards their designated workstation, as he forces his legs to keep from buckling and his hands to keep from shaking. 

That only works for so long: sometime between the second and third hour, between one blink and the next he’s on the floor, heart beating a sluggish rhythm in his chest. Silhouettes crouching over him: Jones and the Frenchman - Jacques? - their faces creased with concern as they try to pull him up. 

Too late. The approaching patter of boots is unmistakable, as is the sharp bark of Lohmer’s voice as he orders his men to move the others back while hands grip at Bucky's wrists and begin to drag him away, heading not for the east wing but somewhere else entirely. The sharp smack of batons against bodies follows quickly after--- “Don't--don't,” Bucky manages to slur out, trying to struggle against the hands on him, but whether they're still hurting the others he doesn't know, because the next thing he knows the guards have dragged him through a doorway into a new part of the building. Some kind of barracks, from the looks of things. 

The guards relinquish their grip, letting him drop. Bucky tries to push himself upright. He’s stopped short by the sudden appearance of a boot on his chest. 

It’s Lohmer, standing over him. His face twists into a cruel, triumphant sneer. He crouches down until they're almost face to face, murmuring in that oily, smug voice words that Bucky doesn't need to understand German to catch the meaning of: _Look at you. Look at where all your fighting got you._

Bucky makes sure to get a nice big mouthful of blood and phlegm, and spits in his face.

Carefully, Lohmer removes a handkerchief from his pocket and uses it to wipe his face, calm, measured. Then he draws the gun at his belt and raises it, and for a split second Bucky stares down the barrel of the gun and knows that this is it, this is how it ends, and it's as he futilely thinks _Sorry, Steve_ that the gun instead comes slamming down on his face, the force tearing his brow open. Blood begins to pour down his face, trickling down into his eyes as he tries to struggle free, even as Lohmer barks more orders and the guards begin to move in closer. 

Someone kicks him over onto his side, on to his front, and then there are hands on his shoulders, on his legs, dragging his arms up in front of him and chaining them together, and he's choking on blood as his face tips forward against the ground. Choking on air, when a hand drags his head up enough for something to loop around his neck and then pull tight, rough metal scraping sharply against his skin as it closes over his throat. 

He struggles against it, cuffed hands scrabbling for purchase on the cool stone floor, trying to drag himself away. For that Lohmer hits him again, with the baton this time, slamming it into his face. Distantly, through the grey haze of pain that follows, he registers the feeling of his pants being peeled down his thighs and his shirt torn from his back, the burn of disgust and humiliation eclipsed by the blinding pain of his cheekbone breaking when Lohmer hits him again. A sharp jerk of the chain cuts off his howl of agony, forcing his spine into a curve as his head is dragged back. There's blood in his eyes, pouring down into his mouth, he can't see, can’t speak, can't fucking _breathe,_ and the next moment someone kicks viciously at his side without warning, the sensation of his ribs grinding together tearing a ragged noise from his throat that gets caught in the blood in his mouth. He gags, once and then again when the pain of it ricochets through his face, the sound choking off into silence when a pair of gloved hands spreads him apart and someone spits wet saliva right on his exposed ass. 

_What the---what the hell are they---_ Bucky’s mind manages to stutter out as darkness begins to spill across his vision. When a gloved hand settles on his side he can't keep from jerking away from the touch even as the chain on his neck bites tighter, as fingers slide down over ribs and hip and then lower, over his ass. More hands on him, spreading him apart as the fingers trail through the wet spit there and then---and then dip in to press against his exposed asshole.

Bucky freezes, and then fights with everything he has left. 

_This isn't happening. This isn't happening._

But, no matter how hard he struggles, it does: a burst of movement around him, and then hands are on his wrists, holding them down, more gripping at his thrashing legs and moving them into position until he’s trapped, pinned beneath the weight of too many men. Pinned worse, though, by the feeling of their eyes on him, taking in the sight of him exposed like this: on his knees, his chest forced down to the floor, legs held firmly apart while someone---while they----

The man behind him leans in close, lips brushing softly against his ear in sick imitation of a lover -- and Bucky hates the part of him that wishes, just for a moment, that it was Steve doing this, Steve over him -- and then the man speaks, that same low cruel sneer, and it's Lohmer, murmuring in his ear those same words as before, and Bucky hates that he ever tainted Steve’s memory by thinking of him like this. 

_Look at you,_ Lohmer’s saying, as his gloved fingers press against Bucky's hole, lightly; almost teasing. _Look at where all your fighting got you._

It takes a few tries to get the words out past the blood pooling in his mouth. 

“Go to hell, you sick fuck.” 

Lohmer’s fingers still. “Ah, so it does speak,” he murmurs, this time in heavily accented English. He moves his right hand, gloved fingers tracing a cool line down from Bucky’s hole to cup at the swell of his balls, the touch gentler than anything that’s come before.

Bucky swallows the bile rising in his throat, his face burning, made speechless with humiliation. Lohmer’s fingers tighten, giving him a gentle squeeze that makes his breath hitch at the sharp throb of sensation. Pain, and something else that makes his gut clench tight. His thigh twitches when Lohmer does it again, jerking futilely against the hands keeping it in place. _This isn’t happening._

Lohmer’s left hand slides from where it’s curled around Bucky’s hip to his ass, thumb pressing lightly against his hole until it twitches at the touch. 

“My men and I have not had a woman in months,” Lohmer says in that calm measured voice, as he nudges his finger back and forth in time with the squeezes of his other hand. “They are very frustrated. And you, Sergeant Barnes, are a very frustrating man.” 

With a sharp jerk of his wrist his finger presses in, forcing its way inside and sliding in up to the knuckle. 

Bucky bites back the hiss of pain at the feeling, caught too tightly to pull away from it. He tries anyway. It isn't enough to drown out the rapid pumping of the gloved finger working him open or Lohmer’s pleased words to the guards, and what they might mean. 

“You should feel how he clutches at me; tight as a woman. Although,” he says, withdrawing his fingers and pushing back in with two, “By the time you have your turn, that may no longer be the case.” 

Bucky shoves down the icy shivers of helplessness rippling down his spine and snarls, snapping at the curious fingers reaching for his mouth until the bite of the chain steals his breath. For that Lohmer rewards him with a vicious one-two, his fingers seizing Bucky’s balls in a vice-like grip and squeezing hard in counterpoint to the thrust of the fingers inside him as they stroke deeper up into him, curling, almost like they're looking for something. The next moment they pause their inward motion, rubbing harshly over a spot inside.

To his horror, Bucky feels his dick jerk between his legs. Lohmer rubs the spot again, sparking another thrill of heat shuddering up his spine. Bucky thrashes, trying to get out from under the hands pinning him in place as his cock slowly begins to harden.

_This isn't happening. This isn't happening._

Lohmer’s fingers don't let up their relentless press inside him, stroking and teasing at that spot inside. It's too much, hurting and not-hurting all at once. Between the fingers inside him and the hand squeezing at his balls, the sensation rapidly becomes overwhelming; soon it’s practically unbearable, the heat pooling in his gut far worse than the pain of all the beatings that came before it. 

Disgust floods his veins when he registers something like gratitude, for the hands on him that keep him from the shame of thrusting his hips forward, of pressing back into the fingers stretching him open as his traitorous body seeks more stimulation. Between his legs, his cock has fattened up, swollen against his belly and beginning to drip with each rub of Lohmer’s fingers. Humiliation flares bright in his chest at the thought of what he must look like, what the men watching him are seeing, what Steve would think of him like this. 

“Tell me, Sergeant Barnes,” Lohmer croons softly, dragging Bucky from his reverie as he pauses the rapid thrust of his fingers -- three, now -- and pulls them back enough for Bucky’s body to clutch at the fingertips, like it's trying to draw them in deeper. “Are you ready to submit?”

It’s the same offer he'd extended throughout all the whippings and beatings out on the factory floor: _Submit, and the punishment ends._

Bucky’s going to come, soon, whether he fights it or not. They're going to force it out of him, and then they're going to fuck him, and they're not going to stop until they've had their fill. But he survived the streets of Brooklyn, the trenches, the battlefield. He can survive this; the shame, the humiliation. He can endure it. No one ever needs to know. 

Bucky drops his voice to a low hoarse whisper. It isn’t hard to pretend; the chain around his neck is barely letting him breathe. When he speaks, it's too quiet for Lohmer to hear, forcing the colonel to lean in closer. 

“What was that, Sergeant?” 

“I said,” Bucky rasps, waiting until Lohmer’s close enough, and then: “Fuck you.” 

Bucky strikes. 

He snaps his head back, colliding with the man's nose with a satisfying crunch. Lohmer pulls back with a furious yell of pain. The next moment his grip on Bucky's balls tightens to a vicious hold, tugging them down away from his body and then bringing his other hand down in a hard, open-palmed slap. 

Bucky yells, his whole body seizing up as throbbing pain shoots right througH him. Lohmer tightens his grip and hits him again, and then a third time, putting all of his strength into the blow until Bucky’s voice cracks on a scream, fighting against the hands on him to get away as he gasps into the cool tile. A ragged noise escapes him when Lohmer releases his grip. His cock throbs between his legs as sensation begins to flood back in, thickening up again from where the pain had softened it.

That particular fact doesn't go unnoticed by Lohmer or the others; cruel laughter ripples through the men around him. Lohmer’s gloved hand reaches under Bucky and closes around his cock, before giving it a long, slow stroke from root to tip. Bucky fights to pull away from the touch, stopping short as the chain bites deep into his neck. The pain is almost a relief; anything to distract from the rising heat between his legs, from the way that his balls -- swollen hot from their abuse -- are beginning to draw up and tighten, fluid dripping out of him with each tight pull of Lohmer's hand. 

Sensation builds. Soon his thighs are shaking beneath the hands that keep them in place, his breath stuttering in his chest, his face and chest aflame. He doesn't want this, doesn't want any of this, but Lohmer's hand doesn't let up as the other curls around his ass, spreading him open, and something thick and hard presses right up against where Lohmer's fingers have loosed him up. 

Lohmer speeds up the wet snap of his fist up and down Bucky's length, the tight circle of his hand made slick with precome, rubbing his thumb against the slit at the peak of every stroke, driving Bucky closer and closer to the edge. The next moment the hands pinning Bucky’s hips begin to move him backward, inexorable against his weakening struggles, easing him down onto Lohmer’s cock. His traitorous body opens up for it, accepting each thick inch of it even as Bucky thrashes, his fists clenched white-knuckled in their restraints. 

On the next brutal pump of his fist, Lohmer snaps his hips forward to meet Bucky’s backward movement, burying himself to the hilt, his balls slapping heavily against Bucky's own. The agonising throb of sensation breaks through the last scraps of will Bucky’s been clinging to, and that's it; it's all over.

He comes, half-sobbing against the tile as he begins to shake, impaled and writhing on Lohmer’s cock. Between his legs his cock jerks, spurting thin stripes of wet against the ground, more drooling out of him when Lohmer closes his hand around his balls, tugging and squeezing at them in punishing rhythm as his orgasm intensifies. 

It’s too much, _too much_ , trapped between Lohmer pressing in behind and Lohmer’s hand in front and the bodies over him, around him, sensation overwhelming him. His vision blurs in a flare of white, and then red, and then grey. 

Distantly, as if from a long way away, he registers Lohmer pulling out with a low groan, wet heat splashing over his ass and thighs and lower back as Lohmer comes; recognizes, too, the thin, ragged noise at the edge of his hearing as his own overstimulated whine as Lohmer gives him one last vicious squeeze before letting go. 

The scrape of leather, as Lohmer refastens his belt. The rustle of cloth, as he stands. The slow tap of boots against the tile, as he circles around, coming to a stop until he’s standing over Bucky’s prone body. 

Silence, as Lohmer pauses, giving him a long surveying look. Then: “He’s all yours.” 

Bucky closes his eyes, and breathes in. 

He’s back in Brooklyn. The rough stone beneath his palms is the floor of an alley, the pain trickling back courtesy of the latest asshole -- and his brothers -- Steve had refused to back down from. Panting, nearby: Steve, knocked down beside him, a bruise blossoming on his jaw, his lip bloody. Struggling up onto his knees and turning his head enough to flash Steve a crooked, bloody grin that Steve meets with one of his own. Warmth, blooming in his chest at the sight of Steve, wiping blood from his mouth as he stands on unsteady feet, shaky fists raised. 

He holds the image in his mind, clutching at it with unsteady hands: Steve, refusing to be knocked down. They think that they broke him. Bucky’s gonna prove them wrong. He can endure this; whatever it takes, whatever they do to him, he can endure it. He can survive. He has to. 

Bucky curls his hands into fists, and waits for his next chance to fight back. 

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as...something else entirely, but it was a little too trash-light, so: more CBT. Gotta stay true to my brand, I guess. (Sorry, Bucky.)
> 
> (Side note: I cannot believe that it is twenty-fucking- _SEVENTEEN_ and I am still crying over Bucky fucking Barnes. Even if I do have a weird way of showing my affection.)


End file.
